Bits and Bobs
by San Antonio Rose
Summary: A collection of one-shot shorts, most featuring hurt!Dean. (Now with spoilers through 9.07)
1. Moonlight Serenade

A/N: These "Bits and Bobs" collections will house most of my one-shot comment-fics from various LJ comms. Each chapter is self-contained, and some have been Jossed (but I'll be sure to note which ones they are).

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><p>Moonlight Serenade<p>

Dean looked just about ready to shoot Sam's laptop as the Beach Boys' "Dance, Dance, Dance" came to a close. Sam had been trying to find dance tunes that Dean could stomach to get him through this incredibly stupid curse, and they'd both been surprised by some of the things he'd found in the far reaches of ("Caramelldansen" hadn't gone over half as well as the Baseballs' rockabilly cover of "Umbrella" or Die Prinzen's Alles Nur Geklaut," but Sam got a kick out of watching Dean do the dance anyway). But they were forty hours into the forty-eight-hour curse, and even Sam was getting sick of bubblegum pop. Plus, Dean was wearing down badly, shaking with exhaustion and unable to keep the tears from streaming down his face from the exertion, but he literally could not stop moving.

There was only one thing for it. Sam had spent the last three songs setting up the new playlist, and now he was ready to give Dean the break he needed. As the Beach Boys faded out, Sam quickly pulled Dean over, wrapped his brother's rubbery arms around his neck, and settled his own arms in a supportive position around Dean's chest and waist.

Dean was in no fit state to struggle, but he tried to anyway. "What the hell, Sammy?"

"Dude, shut up and stand on my feet. This is how they did it in the '30s."

"What?"

Dean's protest was cut off by the distinctive pop and hiss of an old record, followed by clarinet and saxophone in quiet harmony, joined by muted brass-Glenn Miller's signature tune, "Moonlight Serenade." Sam pressed Dean's head against his shoulder and began shuffling around the motel room in something that wasn't quite a two-step and wasn't quite a waltz.

"Back during the Depression," he explained, "people used to go to dance marathons in the hope of winning some money-cash prize to the couple who could stay on the dance floor longest. Only the girls couldn't always stay awake the whole time, so the band would play something slow and the girl would fall asleep standing on the guy's feet while he kept them both moving."

"You callin' me a girl?" Dean mumbled into Sam's shoulder, relaxing in spite of himself.

Sam chuckled. "Rest, Dean. Let me do the work for a while."

Dean was asleep by the end of the song.


	2. All the Comforts of Home

A/N: Written prior to 6.01 on the assumption that Sam came back whole.

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><p>All the Comforts of Home<p>

_"All the comforts of home."  
>"Yeah, your home, Shotgun, not mine."<em>

Sam could just barely hear the dialogue on the TV as he got out of the shower, and he chuckled to himself. Leave it to Dean to find the only channel in five states that was still showing _The Monkees_.

This hunt hadn't gone according to plan at all. It was supposed to be a simple salt-n-burn, just to ease them back into life on the road after Sam's return—they'd been reunited for a month now—but the ghost wasn't the only secret the town had been hiding, and the demon that had turned up at the cemetery had thrown Dean into a tree before Sam could kill it. Dean was definitely concussed, might have a couple of broken ribs, not bad enough for a hospital, but bad enough for them to stay put another couple of days. Sam had had to dispatch the ghost on his own, and Dean hadn't regained consciousness until they were almost back to the Impala.

Ordinarily, Sam would tease Dean mercilessly for having actually _whimpered _when he came to, but what Dean had said next made teasing seem heartless:

"Sammyyy... wanna go hooome..."

Sam had murmured something inanely reassuring and bundled Dean into the Impala, and by the time they got back to the motel, Dean was aware enough to grump at Sam for being a mother hen and to shoo him off to the shower. Sam had promised to take a look at the head injury when he came back, and Dean had nodded and flapped his hands at Sam. Sam suspected that Dean had wanted to call Lisa without having his little brother listen in.

But when Sam came out of the bathroom, there was no sign that Dean had called anyone. Instead, he was sacked out on his stomach... on Sam's bed. On his pillow, under his blankets, in what looked like his sweats and the old hoodie that didn't fit Sam anymore but that Dean sometimes wore when...

... when he needed the comfort of home.

It hit Sam like lightning from a clear sky. Most people, when sick, would go _home _and curl up under a favorite blanket with whatever comfort clothes and comfort food they preferred. But the closest thing Sam and Dean had ever had to a permanent home was the Impala—unless you considered that what made a place home was the people you shared it with. Your family.

Lisa's house had never been truly home for Dean, any more than the apartment he'd shared with Jess had been truly home for Sam. Oh, maybe they could have been eventually, had supernatural forces not intervened, but Sam knew that even the married grad students at Stanford still said they were going "home" when they planned to visit their parents. It just followed that for Dean, "home" meant... Sam.

Sam eased himself onto the bed beside Dean, and only then did he hear his brother snuffling quietly into his pillow. A quick visual inspection of the head injury showed that it wasn't likely to need stitches. So Sam gingerly wrapped his arms around Dean, being careful not to put pressure on the ribs he suspected were at least bruised.

"It's okay, Dean," he whispered. "We're home."


	3. olddog at learningnewtricks dot com

A/N: Written immediately after 6.01, before we knew what was up with Sam _or_ with Samuel.

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><p>olddog [at] learningnewtricks . com<p>

"_That_ is a computer?"

His namesake blinks at him. "Uh, yeah. It's called a laptop, because it's small enough and light enough to fit on your lap. And it runs on a battery, so it's portable."

"Huh."

Sam doesn't set it in his lap, though. Instead, he sets it on the table and draws over a chair for each of them, then opens the contraption to reveal a flattened typewriter keyboard on one half and a black piece of plastic on the other. Then he pushes a button, and the black plastic lights up like a television screen—which would explain why Sam keeps it upright instead of opening it flat against the tabletop.

"It'll take a minute to boot up," says Sam and goes off to the kitchen to get them each a mug of coffee. By the time he gets back, the computer has run through several different picture screens and sung a couple of little tunes, finally settling on a piece of modern art overlaid with lots of little pictures with tiny captions. Sam rubs his finger across a rectangle of plastic below the space bar, and a little arrow on the screen moves accordingly.

"Okay, Grandpa. Where do you want to start?"

There was some comment that Dean made, the guy who'd claimed to be his time-traveling grandson back in '73—something about a net of information? "What kinds of databases does this thing have?"

Sam blinked at him again; Lucifer must really have done a number on him. "Um, none actually _on_ the computer... I don't think it even has Access."

"Access to what?"

"It's a program, Microsoft Access—" Sam breaks off as if he realizes something. "But it does have wi-fi access."

"Wi-fi? Is that like hi-fi?"

Sam coughs and moves the arrow over a blue lower-case e with a yellow halo. "Ah, no. It's a wireless computer network, allows you to connect to the Internet."

There's a little bar under the touchpad that moves the arrow, and Sam taps the left side of it twice. The computer makes a clicking noise, and a white screen comes up with the word "Google" and a little rectangle with a blinking vertical bar in it. Sam takes a drink of coffee and thinks for a moment, then types "library of congress," puts the arrow over the box that says "Google Search" (where it turns into a pointing hand), and taps the left side of the bar once. A few moments later a long list of results pops up, and Sam puts the arrow over the blue underlined "Library of Congress Home" and taps the bar again, then does the same thing to the "Library Catalogs" rectangle that shows up on the next screen.

"Library of Congress Online Catalog," declares the next screen above two lists of ways to search for information, and Samuel stares. Back in '73, you had to go _to Washington_ to search the Library of Congress card catalog.

"It gets better," Sam grins and types something ending with ".uk" in a rectangle Samuel hadn't noticed before. Then he hits enter, and up comes a search page for _the British Library_.

"Is that... _the_ British Library? The one in London?"

"Yes, sir." Sam's grin is even broader now. "Every major library in the world has its catalog online now. Almost every library does, actually, and there are sites like Project Gutenberg that are almost like online libraries 'cause they have the full text of books available for free. And you can search encyclopedias, newspaper archives, weather data, astronomical data..."

No wonder Dean had thought a week was an unreasonable amount of time to get weather information!

"Brave new world," Samuel murmurs, and Sam chuckles quietly. Then Samuel takes a bracing drink of coffee and claps his grandson on the shoulder. "Okay, Sam. Show me how this intranets thing works."

"You're worse than Dad," Sam grumbles and moves the arrow over an X in the top right corner of the screen, which makes the British Library screen go away and the modern art reappear. "Okay. Let's start from the beginning..."


	4. To the Woods and the Waters Wild

A/N: Written between 6.22 and 7.01. Warning for character death.

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><p>To the Woods and the Waters Wild<p>

Dean never did figure out how Ash managed to get a message patched through to his cell phone. He only wished he could respond with more than an occasional fleeting thought of thanks and a hope that Ash could hear it.

_Big trouble in Little Heaven, amigos—Sam's persona non grata up here. The way is shut. I'm really sorry; ain't the same up here without you two. Hope you're able to find an afterlife that suits you better than this mess._

That had been some time ago, when the Being Formerly Known As Cas (Dean refused to call him "Godstiel" or anything similarly ridiculous) was still trying to get the brothers to worship him and Sam had managed to torque him off. Dean had suspected then that the decision was less punishment than blackmail—"submit and I'll let Sam back in" was never stated, but Dean inferred it.

He would have thought the whole supernatural world would know by now how he reacted to blackmail.

But time went on, and there was no indication that Cas' Purgatory equivalent of a PCP overdose was wearing off much. Sam, Dean, and Bobby were running out of hiding places, out of steam... out of time. As valiantly as Sam fought the aftermath of the Wall coming down, Dean could tell he wasn't getting any better. And Ash hadn't written back to say that the Pearly Gates were open to Sam again.

Dean hadn't liked Heaven all that much the first time around. He _definitely_ wasn't going back alone, without Sam. No way they were going back to Hell, either. And Bobby made him swear that they wouldn't hang on as ghosts.

Both brothers were wrung out after a bad hunt and a worse Hell spell this particular night, with a wrenched knee for Dean and bruised ribs for Sam plus assorted cuts and scrapes and who knew what internal injuries, and Sam probably had the flu on top of everything else; but as exhausted as Dean was, he couldn't sleep for worrying. In years past, he might have been willing to give up and let the injuries claim them both, but if death was no longer any kind of release, what could they do?

His morbid thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched laugh like a peal of silver bells. "Ah, 'tis a funny one you are, Dean Winchester," said a highly amused young woman's voice with what sounded like an Irish accent. "You've not forgotten the fair folk, surely?"

Dean sat bolt upright in shock and found himself staring at a reasonably human-looking woman sitting on the foot of his bed, dark-haired and grey-eyed, clad in green and glowing with moonlight—perhaps the most human-looking fairy he'd ever seen, apart from that stupid leprechaun and the even more stupid Tinkerbell wannabe. "What do you want?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Why, 'tis my birthday tomorrow, and I thought to invite you to feast with us."

Dean blinked. "Do I know you?"

"No, no, we've not met. But 'tis the talk of the courts you are, my bold one, and I wished to see for myself what manner of man you are."

"Courts? There's more than one?"

"Aye—and I'd like naught better than to steal you from Oberon's." Her smile turned slightly seductive as she reached out and caressed his face. "If you'll consent."

Dean swallowed hard. "I'm not goin' anywhere without my brother. Not this time."

She glanced over at the other bed and blinked. "The tale was, he had no soul."

"He didn't _then_. He does now."

She got up and walked over to Sam, who was making pained noises even in his sleep. Her face grew troubled and sad as she looked at him, then hardened in anger as her fists clenched. "They'd no right to treat him thus. None." Then she gently brushed Sam's hair back from his forehead, and Dean could see him relax into a deeper, painless sleep.

"'Tis a fair _geis_ you ask, Dean," she said as she turned back to him. "I must ask my father, but if he agrees, we'll come for you both tomorrow at sundown."

"Sundown," Dean agreed.

She came back to him and kissed him... and that was the last thing he knew for several hours.

* * *

><p>Bobby, predictably, called him an idjit, but he didn't try to talk Dean out of it. They all knew that Dean was fae-touched and that it was only a matter of time before the fairies came to collect. And despite the good rest, he and Sam were both still beat to hell, and Sam was still feverish and mostly out of it. Once Sam finally understood what Dean was saying, though, he sniffled miserably, nodded, and mumbled, "'S better than <em>this."<em>

Bobby was close enough to the boys' motel to be able to come pick up the Impala and say goodbye just in case they really were going for good. Dean didn't want to leave the car, but Bobby argued that the fairies weren't likely to agree to take it as it was—if anything, they'd turn it into a horse.

"I could live with that," Dean shrugged.

"Dude," Sam wheezed, "at least get the iron stuff outta the trunk."

So Bobby cleared out the trunk and pulled out all the personal stuff he could find in the interior while Dean hobbled around the room doing his usual look-out-for-Sammy routine, though Sam was too sick to respond much. And once Bobby had finished and they'd managed to say their goodbyes without crying much, Dean crawled into bed with Sam, cradling his little brother's head against his shoulder, and dozed off.

Precisely at sunset, there was a knock at the door. The brothers stirred, but Bobby answered the door and let in the fairy who'd appeared to Dean the night before, along with two others who looked a lot like her, one of whom kissed Bobby on the cheek as she passed.

"Hey," Dean smiled at his fairy. "Happy birthday."

She smiled back and kissed him. "Thank you, my bold one. The feast is prepared; only the two of you are lacking. Come on!" she added, tugging at his hand.

He laughed and let her pull him to his feet, suddenly feeling whole and well in a way he hadn't in years. The other fairy who hadn't kissed Bobby did the same with Sam, who suddenly didn't look or sound sick anymore, and once Sam was vertical, his fairy gave him a long kiss.

"Mm!" she exclaimed when she'd finished. "You were right, sister. I do like this one."

Sam cleared his throat, a little flustered. "Really?"

She grinned cheekily at him. "Aye, my champion, and I'm yours if you'll have me."

Sam actually blushed.

Dean's fairy laughed. "Come, come! Let's waste no more time!"

"Can we take my car?" Dean asked as she pulled him toward the door, Sam and his fairy hard on their heels.

"In a fashion. Come away, come away! There'll be music and dancing, and food such as mortal lips have never tasted, and such _games_ we will play, my loves!"

Dean laughed and glanced over his shoulder at Sam. "You okay, Sammy?"

Sam grinned, happier and healthier than Dean had seen him in a long, long time. "Yeah, dude. Better than okay." And he kissed his fairy suddenly, much to her evident delight.

"Come away!" the fairies cried again, and then they were out the door, and Dean's fairy chanted something that turned the Impala into a huge black charger that both brothers could ride easily. The fairies mounted their own horses, and away they rode.

But no music was sweeter to Dean's ears than Sam's laughter as they left their cares behind.

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><p>Bobby watched the boys go for as long as they remained in mortal sight, savoring the image of both of them, especially Sam, whole and free at last. Then he sighed and turned to go back into the room—and paused.<p>

The Impala was still sitting in its parking spot.

Frowning, Bobby went over to look at it. Everything appeared normal, but the metal felt cold and lifeless under his hand, void of the sense of love, of home, that had always clung to the car for as long as it had been Dean's. Bobby couldn't figure out why...

... until he noticed that the little green army man was missing from the ash tray on the back passenger door.

Bobby ran a hand over his mouth and chin, steeling himself to go back into the room, fearing what he would find. Sure enough, there were the boys, still curled up together, their faces more peaceful than Bobby had seen them since they were kids. And they weren't breathing.

Bobby held himself together long enough to get the room cleaned up, to get the bodies into the shell of the Impala and get home to commit his heart's sons to the flames. But even as he finally let the tears fall, he heard the last words that third fairy had said to him when she kissed him again on her way out the door:

_Don't weep for them, mo croi—you'll join our frolics soon!_

And really, he had to agree with Dean. There were worse fates.


	5. The Number of Man

A/N: A deliberate AU this time!

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><p>The Number of Man<p>

Samuel Colt half believed the gun cursed as soon as he finished it. Whether the female who helped him design and complete it was demon, witch, or angel, he didn't know, but he didn't trust her further than he could throw her. He suspected that the omens that appeared that night boded nothing good.

So when he made its bullets, he almost—_almost_—stopped after #13. In fact, he told his helper that that was his intent.

But something told him to keep going. _Twenty,_ his mind kept insisting. _The number of Man_. And when he paused to engrave the numbers, he found he'd already made fourteen. So twenty it was.

He'd fired it a grand total of five times before a giant with shaggy brown hair, haunted green-hazel eyes, and too-clean clothes showed up claiming to have come from the year 2012 in search of a phoenix in Sunrise, WY. Claimed he needed the ash for a weapon in his own time. Colt wouldn't go with the kid, but he sent the gun. Then he thought better of it and followed at a safe distance. He got to Sunrise just as Elkins, the barkeep, was picking the gun up out of the dust.

"They disappeared, Mr. Colt," said Elkins, handing him the gun. "Shot this feller, made a dive for the ashes... disappeared 'fore they could reach 'im."

Colt looked at the gun and the phoenix's ashes. He thought about the kid, the magic brick he'd left behind, his crazy tale and his plea for help. He thought about his trap and the war and how unlikely it was that he'd survive much longer.

"Elkins," said he, "I need a favor."

* * *

><p>One bullet was fired by an Elkins somewhere between 1861 and 1973.<p>

One bullet was fired by a hunter who called himself Dean Van Halen, but it missed its mark. By then, the story was that there were only 13 bullets, and few indeed were the beings, living or undead, who knew otherwise.

One bullet was fired by John Winchester, to kill a vampire and save his son.

Bullet #10, fired by Sam Winchester, should have missed because he should have hesitated. But with five rounds in the cylinder and six more in his brother's pocket, he burst into Rose Holt's nursery prepared to imitate John Wayne if he had to. That first shot killed Azazel—and his plans for the Apocalypse with him.

Bullet #11 took out one of Azazel's children. Bullet #12 drove another out of John. But with Azazel dead, there was no possessed semi waiting to push John into selling his soul to save a comatose Dean. Dean recovered easily with due medical attention, and the Winchesters... retired as a family to the little town of Cicero, IN, where it turned out that Dean had a son. And they stayed retired, aside from the occasional weekend hunt. Bobby Singer did get a box from Colt addressed to Sam in 2012, but it took a lot of digging for him to figure out what the black stuff in the bottle was, and none of them could figure out how Colt had gotten Sam's Blackberry—with different information on the SIM card, no less—in 1861.

Bullets 13-15 took care of the few demons who dared to attempt to force the Winchesters back into the life. And Sweet 16? That was for a cute little blonde named Ruby who tried to tempt Sam into exploring his powers and who'd been Colt's muse—and killer.

Poetic justice, if Gabriel did say so himself.


	6. Tripwire

A/N: Season 2 AU, for a prompt by nong_pradu on the current hoodie_time comment-fic meme: _You know that switch in the psychic kids' brains that Ava was talking about? Well old Yellow Eyes is tired of waiting for Sam to flip his, so he decides to give Sam a little nudge..._

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><p>Tripwire<p>

Sam has yelled himself hoarse trying to get Yellow-Eyes to let Dean go, to turn his sick sense of humor on Sam instead. The only time he's been able to catch the demon's attention was when he inadvertently threw a bookcase to try to shield Dean, and then Yellow-Eyes had only laughed.

He _wants_ Sam to use his powers. So far, Sam's done his best not to give him the satisfaction.

But Dean can't take much more; it'd be a miracle if every bone in Dean's body isn't broken by now, not to mention the internal bleeding he's bound to have from being bounced literally from pillar to post. And a rage like liquid fire is pumping through Sam's veins as his heart beats like it wants to break out of his chest. He has to save Dean _somehow_.

Then Yellow-Eyes leers at Sam and says something he can't make out over the blood roaring in his ears, and suddenly Dean is screaming like he's four years old again because he's slowly... sliding... up... the wall.

Like Mom.

Something pops behind Sam's eyes.

Then Yellow-Eyes is against the wall and Dean is fall—is _settling gently_ to the floor. Sam's still across the room, but he gives Yellow-Eyes a vicious shake that knocks the smug smile off the demon's face.

Sam points to Dean. "Fix him."

Yellow-Eyes snorts. "Make me, Psychic Boy."

Sam _yanks_, and demon smoke comes halfway out the host's mouth before it goes back in. "I said _fix him_."

"Make me a deal," Yellow-Eyes replies breathlessly. "Can't... do a thing... without a deal."

There's blood pouring from Sam's nose as his heart pounds _I want him dead, I want him dead, Iwanthimdead Iwanthimdead_—

There's a flash from Yellow-Eyes' head—

Sam's got a killer headache, and Dean's staring at him in shock, but he doesn't care. He's got to get Dean to the hospital pronto, so he gathers Dean up carefully and gets halfway to the Impala before his brother actually settles into his arms, but that fact doesn't register. He's saved Dean; that's all that matters.

He'll come back to deal with the corpse—and figure out how he killed it—later on.


	7. Fury

A/N: Inspired by a bit of meta by blackcat333_99 (on LJ) regarding 7.20; includes a couple of snippets of dialogue from that ep and 7.10.

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><p><strong>Fury<strong>

_Mississippi: I figure he'll be pretty mad, you turnin' him down and showin' up on the other side._

_Cole: I hope he is._

_Mississippi: How come?_

_Cole: Fella in his business hasn't got a right to get mad. He gets mad, he's not so good. So the madder he gets, the better I like it._

—_from _El Dorado

"Come on, Dean. I can't be killed."

Those smoldering green eyes didn't waver. "You're gonna wish you could, then."

He laughed. "That's some conviction. You'd really crush it on the motivational circuit."

"You're either laughing because you're scared or you're laughing because you're stupid."

And for a moment, the alpha leviathan didn't see an amusing little animal anymore. He had downloaded all of the angel's memories that went beyond the moment Purgatory had been unleashed, though he seldom reviewed them for more than information on how the modern world and humanity worked. But now, one particular set of memories rushed to mind.

This man, torturing demons to find the woman and child he loved.

This man, stepping between archangels to keep his brother from dying alone.

This man, preparing to kill Death to save the world.

This man, running to his doom to stop his brother from freeing Lucifer.

This man, taking on Hell's torture-master because a friend asked him to.

This man, demanding that angels save a town no matter the cost.

This man, fighting—twice—against both Heaven and Hell to save his mother from a plot that would take her life.

This man, knife in hand in the pits of Hell, inspiring fear by his mere presence yet still, in Castiel's mind, a beacon of righteousness in the midst of the darkness.

This man they called Alastair's apprentice.

This man who derailed the Apocalypse.

This man who dared to bind Death to stop an angel gone mad.

And Dick Roman had just shot the one person Dean Winchester held dearer than any but his brother.

_You're going to wish you could die._

There was no doubt he meant it. And for the first time in millennia, the alpha leviathan had to wonder quite seriously whether a threat like that directed at him... might just be a promise.

* * *

><p>After confirming that Bobby Singer had died and that the Winchesters had once more disappeared, the alpha leviathan put the confrontation at the hospital out of his mind. He had appearances to keep up, after all, plus digs to finance and financial coups to pull off. The disappearance of the underlings in Portland didn't bother him much, nor did the losses of the few other leviathans who crossed paths with hunters savvy enough to take them down. The Winchesters clearly hadn't kept their knowledge to themselves.<p>

But Frank Devereaux hadn't been a hunter, and that information annoyed Dick. So did the inability of his best minions to crack Devereaux's code. So he called in his best human employee, a hacker named Charlie who couldn't be cloned and who was said to be able to break into everything. She got into Devereaux's drive in two days.

"You broke the unbreakable," he said when she showed him what she'd found. "What's the thought process? And ixnay on the jargon."

She shrugged, clearly nervous. "Nothing's unbreakable. Nothing's safe, if you poke at it long enough."

The thought pleased him... until he opened a suitcase that should have contained a crucial stone tablet and found himself instead staring at a bomb attached to a bottle of concentrated sodium borate solution and a timer counting down to its final seconds.

_Nothing's safe_ rang in his ears as the borax sprayed over him, burning skin and bone. And another, deeper voice joined it: _You're going to wish you could die._

Not a threat. A promise. From an upstart human said to have a list of mental and emotional problems a mile long.

They stole his tablet. They stole his hacker. They fought him with some other monster that looked like Bobby Singer, a monster he'd never seen before.

_You're going to wish you could die_.

He wasn't there yet. Nor was he afraid. But for the first time in many, many millennia, he felt something he thought he'd conquered long ago—something worse than hunger, annoyance, or displeasure.

The alpha leviathan was enraged.


	8. Invincible

A/N: Inspired by the 2012 NCAA women's basketball playoffs; set post 7.18. The quotes from the commentators are real, either direct quotes or as close a paraphrase as I could remember. "A&M" is Texas A&M University, and "UT" is the University of Texas ("TU" being the Aggies' deliberate inversion thereof).

* * *

><p>Invincible<p>

Sam outgrew the last of his Stanford shirts about three years ago. He still manages to find something "cardinal" red to wear. Dean, of course, snarks that it's "_maroon_, Sammy, just like A&M. Cardinal red is _red_," and he pulls up a picture of Chris Carpenter at Spring Training to prove it.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Whatever, Dean."

"And while we're at it, what the hell is with making the mascot a redwood and then calling the team 'the _Cardinal_,' singular?"

Sam opens his mouth to reply and stops. "You got me there. But _that_ is still an ugly color," he continues, pointing to Dean's gold-colored "got mulk?" shirt that they picked up in Waco sometime before Cold Oak.

"You're just jealous 'cause Brittney Griner's taller than you."

"... What does that have to do with anything?"

It doesn't. That comeback's a deflection, always has been. Dean can't defend the shade of golden yellow Baylor uses in its T-shirts, but this one wasn't available in green. He just... can't help needling Sam over everything, even when it doesn't make sense. They came too damn close to not being able to do this again, ever. And while they'd both been rooting for KU the night before in the men's Final Four, having the chance to let Sammy cheer for his alma mater while giving him grief by sticking with the Big 12's powerhouse Lady Bears... it's just too good to pass up.

Besides, neither of them really loses if the other's team wins, and it has the dual advantage of not having apocalyptic significance and not allowing for chick flick moments of the kind Dean simply cannot handle at the moment. Although... even with Sam being more or less back on his feet... it won't be completely easy.

* * *

><p><em>"Half an hour," Dean was saying back in 2010 as Cas returned from the bakery with the coffee the Winchesters had requested and a pie that they hadn't but that had caught Cas' eye. "That's all you get. Then we <em>are_ switching to ESPNU."_

_ "Dean," Sam objected from where he was sprawled on the single king-sized bed (all the two-queen rooms had been taken)._

_ Dean, who was standing, crossed his arms defiantly. "You're just jealous 'cause Brittney Griner's taller than you."_

_ "_A lot_ of basketball players are taller than me. And there are three games on ESPN2."_

_ "And we're in Nebraska, which means you wouldn't get to see all of the Stanford game anyway. Hey, Cas—is that pie?"_

_ "Yes," replied a bewildered Cas. "It's peach."_

_ Dean's grin was brighter than it had been in days as he took the food and drink from the angel. "Awesome. Thanks, man."_

_ "_Dean_," Sam said in what was nearly a whine._

_ Dean took Sam his coffee. "Sammy, Stanford is a first-seed, and they're almost undefeated. Odds are they'll make the Sweet 16, and you'll get to see them play again next weekend. And if it's that important to you, you can watch it online."_

_ "No, I _can't_ watch it online. The wi-fi's out, remember? And I can't stream video on dial-up."_

_ "What's happening?" Cas finally interrupted._

_ "March Madness," the brothers chorused._

_ At Cas' confused head tilt, Sam explained, "College basketball championships. Stanford's women's team is playing tonight, but _Dean_ wants to watch the Baylor game."_

"_The Big 12's got game, little brother," Dean remarked, returning to the bed with his own coffee and a quarter of the pie._

_ "Is that why UT got knocked out in the first round?" Sam snarked._

_ "_TU_ doesn't count," Dean replied haughtily and pointedly took a long drink of coffee._

_ But Sam was still sulking, so Cas did what was evidently the only thing he could think to do to attempt to restore peace. "Would you like some pie, Sam?"_

_ Sam opened his mouth to refuse but changed his mind. "Sure. Thanks, Cas."_

* * *

><p>And now Cas is catatonic after doing something short of actually fixing Sam, and Dean's still torn between being deeply hurt by what Cas did and being glad the idjit nerd angel's still somehow, impossibly but all too plausibly, alive and seems to be really truly sorry for having been an idjit even if sorry doesn't make anything better. They'll get him out of that damned hospital sooner or later, when it's safe, when he's not frozen, when they can look at him without breaking down.<p>

There's too damn much about all this that Dean doesn't want to think about. March Madness. Final Four. Single elimination—one and done. Hell, even the fact that the game's being played on April Fool's...

* * *

><p><em>As it turned out, the week after Baylor and Stanford both made the Sweet 16 saw the Winchesters and their angelic sidekick on an exhausting hunt through Badlands National Park—apparently Coyote had convinced a group of Molech's demons that the area would make a good stronghold—and the mortals had just flopped wearily onto Bobby's couch when the Tennessee-Ohio State game started. They had wanted to try to make at least one playoff game in person that year, given that it might be their last chance, but now they'd be in no fit state to try to make it to Sacramento for the Stanford game the next day, never mind Memphis for the Lady Bears-Lady Vols game on Saturday. <em>

_ So Cas left quietly and returned with pizza and beer before the hunters realized he was gone. Still not recovered from the double whammy of the zombie attack and Sam's relapse, Bobby smiled sadly at Cas and went back to staring out the window, clearly not interested in food; Sam and Dean each managed an "Oh, hey, thanks, Cas" before going back to staring at the TV and eating their pizza without realizing what they were doing. Cas once more found a chair and settled in to watch the basketball game._

_ And suddenly found another pizza in his lap and his chair turned into a loveseat._

_ "Room for one more?" said an obnoxiously cheerful tenor voice as a smaller figure with light brown hair plopped down next to Cas._

_ The hunters' startled curses were truly impressive and ended with the brothers chorusing, "Gabriel, what the_ hell_?"_

_ "I was bored," Gabriel replied, snatching a piece of the pizza he'd given Cas. "Keeping out of the crossfire is getting to be incredibly hard, which means that my best bet is to do nothing. Even messing with your Rock Chalk Jayhawks last week was pushing it. Although that was one of my better pranks, wrecking the entire country's brackets at once..."_

_ "You would," Dean grumbled._

_ "Anyway, I figure you kids are always good for a laugh, so here I am."_

_ "We could have used your help_ yesterday_," Sam snarled._

_ To his credit, Gabriel looked somewhat contrite at that, but what he said was, "You managed."_

_ "Wait," Bobby interrupted. "_This _is_ Gabriel? That _Gabriel?"_

_ "Nice to meet you, too, Bobby," Gabriel returned wryly and put his feet up on the coffee table._

* * *

><p>And now it's just Sam and Dean in the no-tell motel of the week. His baby is under lock and key, and all their friends are dead.<p>

He'd give anything to see even that stupid Trickster archangel again.

"Dean?" Sam's looking at him, concerned.

Dean takes a deep breath and shakes off the sorrow as best he can. "Yeah. Sorry. Just... remembering."

Sam nods slowly. "Yeah. But dude," he adds more lightly, "tip-off's in, like, two minutes. I didn't want you to miss watching Baylor get slaughtered."

"Pffff. Whatever, man." And the moment's over, and Dean hopes Sam can see in his eyes how grateful he is for the distraction.

Sam snickers and switches on ESPN, which is still showing the UConn-Notre Dame game in overtime. They both end up rooting for the Irish, who win. Then Dean settles back to muse on his team of choice.

Brittney Griner, the Lady Bears' 6'8" Sasquatch. _Odyssey_ Sims. _Destiny_ Williams. _Nae-Nae_ Hayden (that's an old-school way to say "No-No"). Hell, even _Jordan_ Madden has an intimidating name for anyone who remembers the days when everyone wanted to be like Mike. And the Lady Bears deliberately set a long schedule so that they could be the first NCAA basketball team of either gender to go 40-0 to take the championship. As of now, they're 38-0, and word is that Baylor Press is already advertising a commemorative book on the season, titled _Invincible_.

Dean's got a good feeling about this game until one of the announcers starts talking about how Stanford's going to attempt a defense that no other team has tried against Baylor: five on four, leaving the weakest shooter isolated and undefended. And a chill crawls down his spine that has next to nothing to do with the potential outcome of the game.

That weird feeling doesn't go away as the game begins, with the lead going back and forth several times in the first few minutes. Oh, sure, Stanford's got its own Winchester parallel, with the Ogwumike sisters working together as a pretty tight platoon, and neither team is scoring much at all. But the commentators keep talking about Baylor as if they were talking about the Winchesters.

"Stanford's daring Baylor to beat them outside... it messes with your head." The team lacks energy; they're playing at an altitude they're not used to. "They need to give the big girl the ball!" But Stanford's throwing everything they have at Griner, trying to keep her out of the scoring lane and unable to shoot, never mind dunking the way she has twice in this year's playoffs.

By halftime, Dean doesn't know how much more he can take. The Lady Bears end the half in the lead, barely, and Sam glances over at Dean and does a double-take.

"Dude. What?"

"It's a basketball game, Sammy," Dean replies, not quite managing to keep the hysteria out of his voice. "Just a damn basketball game! When the hell did it turn into an allegory?"

Sam swallows hard and pales as he looks back at the screen. Then he swears quietly. "You're right. It is, kind of. I didn't... but Baylor's ahead, right? Maybe..."

Dean takes a long drink from Bobby's flask and waits for the alcohol to start to work before he responds. "Maybe. Sorry, I'm just..."

"No. Yeah. Me, too."

Then one of the commentators says something about how, for Baylor, "nothing was going right offensively, but defensively they kept Stanford in check... it's as much about approach, toughness, as it is anything else." And Dean doesn't know whether to take it as an encouragement or not.

The second half begins much as the first did, but then something happens—Dean's not sure what—and Baylor's patience begins to pay off. They pull ahead by one—by three—by five—by eight—by double digits. Stanford can't catch up after that; they score a few times, but they never narrow the lead to less than six points before Baylor scores again. And every time Baylor scores, Dean's spirits lift a little more.

Stanford gets the last jump shot with 13 seconds left in the game, but it's too little, too late. By then the score is 59-47, and all Baylor has to do is run out the clock to secure a ticket to the championship, to complete their unfinished business from last year. And Dean's about to cheer himself hoarse.

"Just for that," says Sam as he turns off the TV, "I'm rooting for Notre Dame on Tuesday."

Dean just laughs, and Sam grins at him after a moment. It's been too long since either of them had much to laugh about.

But even as he laughs, Dean's processing the parallels. Baylor's got unfinished business. And that makes them invincible.

_The hotter the heat, the harder the steel_, said Robert Griffin III when he won the Heisman_. __No pressure, no diamonds._

Maybe the Leviathans aren't that easy to defeat. Maybe the Winchesters are long on problems and short on assets, short on friends, short on ideas. Heat and pressure? Volcanic. Hellish.

But Dean still has Sam, and they've got unfinished business.

Maybe, just maybe, that's enough.


	9. Not This Time

VERY IMPORTANT A/N (possibly more relevant on LJ, but I'll say it here, too): I was planning not to write any Season 8 fic, at least not until we get more of the missing pieces regarding what on earth is going on with each brother's headspace, especially Sam's. This plotbunny by nwspapertaxis bit hard enough that the story needed to be written. It is not intended to bash _either_ brother, and I ask that your reviews refrain from both character bashing and ad hominem attacks against other fans. I appreciate your reading, but if you have hateful things to say, say them elsewhere.

This story could be viewed as a gapfiller between 8.06 and 8.07 but doesn't have to be. It's likely to be Jossed but hasn't been yet.

* * *

><p>Not This Time<p>

No. Nonononono _this can't be happening._ Not now. Not again. Sam can't lose Dean to death again, he can't hecan'thecan'thecan't. Last time was once too often. Hell, _once_ was once too often, but he might maybe could have lived with it if it hadn't been for stupid Gabriel and his stupid Mystery Spot, even though it didn't take. The first one that took devastated him. Last time all but destroyed him. He can't take it again.

Stop. Breathe. Dean's right here. It's just a fever. Sam knows what to do for fevers. He knows how to keep a fever from cooking Dean's brain. Breathe. Get him in the car. Get him to the cabin. Floor the damn accelerator and pray no cops come along.

Okay. They've made it to the cabin. Breathe. Haul Dean out of the Impala and get him inside. Ice bath. Cold, clear liquids. Advil. Pajamas. Bed. Cold compress. Chair for Sam—he's not leaving. He's not letting Dean go, not like this. He can let Dean do his own thing if he's not with the vampire, if Hell's gates are closed, if he's happy and safe and doesn't need Sam so Sam can try normal again and maybe, maybe make it work for real. He can't let him die.

He misses Riot. Dean would like Riot. Riot's a good dog.

Dean's eyes are half open, fever glazed, watching something Sam can't see as he starts rambling under his breath. "Find the angel... gotta fi... 's the deal, Benny, take..." He starts coughing. "None o' y'r damn... 's a long sto..." Another coughing fit, this one worse. When he catches his breath, he picks up in the middle of a growled string of curses ending with "... stupid angel, I... know y're okay, Cas... get you home... no' leavin... w'outchoo..." His eyes slip closed, and his voice dies away, but his lips keep moving a little even now.

Sam checks the compress; it's already hot. He swaps it for a cold one and washes Dean's face while he's at it. The water evaporates fast—too fast.

Dean is not gonna die. He's not. He can't. Sam won't let him.

Things stay this way for a few hours. Sam swaps out the compresses, gives Dean more Advil, takes his temperature, helps him to the bathroom, coaxes tea and chicken broth into him. Sometimes Dean rouses enough to recognize Sam; mostly he dozes fitfully and mumbles at his hallucinations. It's hard to piece much together from the snatches of one-sided conversation Sam can catch, though one particular groan makes him think Cas and Benny must be sniping at each other about something. He'd heard that groan a lot when he and Dad used to fight about stupid stuff.

The fever's up to 104°. And it won't budge.

He's not gonna die, dammit. It's just a virus. It may take a few days to burn through. Dean _will_ be okay. He _has_ to be.

"... Leviathans?" Dean suddenly says warily. "_Run._"

And the battle hallucinations start. Sam has to hold Dean down to keep him from thrashing his way off the bed and just misses getting a black eye for his trouble. When the first bout lets up, Sam races down to the basement for some kind of restraint that won't hurt Dean, but he barely gets them in place before Dean starts struggling again, this time with horrified screams. He doesn't want to watch, but he can't let Dean hurt himself, and what if Dean comes around enough to see that Sam's not there? Would he hold _that_ over Sam's head, too?

Two more miserable days go by. Dean screams himself hoarse, and it sounds like Hell memories are merging with Purgatory. Sam breaks down and cries more than once. He goes so far as to open the window and let the damn snow in. And the fever still won't budge.

Finally, in desperation, Sam goes to Rufus' cabinet of rare herbs. He took inventory one time; he knows there's dream root in there somewhere. If Dean can't fight his way back, Sam's just gonna have to go in and get him.

"Saaam," Dean's calling weakly when he gets back up to the bedroom, but the way Dean's head is rolling back and forth on his pillow, he's still locked in his memories. "Saaaaaam..." He chokes out a sob. "Saaaaaaaaam..."

"Hang on, Dean," Sam replies brokenly as he pulls a couple of hairs from Dean's head and drops them in a clean glass of water with the dream root. "Hang on. I'm coming."

"Saaaaaaaaaaaam..."

Sam tosses back the potion and swallows it in one gulp.

Dean's dreamscape is almost indescribably horrible. The sulfurous fires of Hell keep shifting in and out, alternating with a washed-out forest that Sam assumes must be the way Dean perceived Purgatory. Every so often a tree spontaneously combusts. But it doesn't seem to matter to the liquid black creatures raining down around him, turning humanoid and lunging at him, Leviathan-mouthed. He's got Dean's obsidian axe in his hand, though, which makes short work of them and lets him keep running. There are demons in here, too, in their true form—a couple he even recognizes from having seen them through Lucifer's eyes—and werewolves and rugarus and vampires and all kinds of other monsters. And hellhounds.

They've got Dean, Cas, and Benny backed against a tree. None of the three are in very good shape. And the tree keeps threatening to turn into a lava flow, or a rack.

"SAAAAAAAM!"

"DEAN!"

Sam's bellow catches the attention of the rest of the horde, and pretty soon he's practically fighting Florentine to slash his way to his brother, axe in one hand and machete in the other. It feels like it takes forever, but he finally dispatches the last monster and looks up at Dean, whose legs give out as he stares at Sam in disbelief. Beside him, Cas is barely conscious and doesn't even stir.

Benny's chuckle turns into a cough. "Looks like your brother's as stupid as you are, buddy," he drawls weakly, but there's a level of fondness in the statement that surprises Sam.

"Sammy?" Dean says. "What... you shouldn't be here..."

Sam can't stop the tears from rolling down his face, washing off the grime. "You're sick, Dean. You've got a really bad fever. And... you weren't resting. Because of all this. I... I had to."

"Wait—you're _really here_? This is _you_? You're dreamwalking?"

"I _had to_, Dean! I lost my mind when you were gone. I can't lose you again."

The emotional wall Dean's been hiding behind comes down a little way as those huge green eyes just stare at him, raw and aching. And then suddenly Sam's got his arms full of big brother, and he hugs back for all he's worth.

When he comes to, the fever's broken, and Dean's sound asleep with a smile on his face. And Sam weeps in relief.


	10. The More Things Change

A/N: Just found some old comment-fics that I'd forgotten I'd written hiding in a dusty corner of hoodie_time! This one's set sometime in the latter half of Season 6, not Jossed but not necessarily canon either.

* * *

><p>The More Things Change...<p>

"Psst. Dean."

He heard the breath of a whisper—too high to be Sammy...

"_Dean._"

What... he knew that voice... couldn't... quite...

A boot in his side jolted Dean awake, and despite the raging headache from the head trauma he'd suffered earlier and the assorted aches and pains of being chained up like he was in some Dark Age dungeon, he was absurdly grateful that his captors hadn't gotten around to breaking his ribs yet. Not that the not-so-gentle nudge had knocked the wind out of him, but still. Apparently there were still places even in the States where people didn't appreciate having their bloodthirsty gods torched, and Dean was very lucky to be only this badly off and to have only half the town surrounding the jail to prevent his escape.

That, of course, begged the question of who had woken him, but his life was far too weird to question the possibility of someone simply appearing in his cell to bust him out.

Then Dean looked up and blinked and decided he _had_ to be dreaming, because Gabriel was muttering something under his breath about muttonheads of the first and twenty-first centuries as he snapped the stocks and manacles with a touch. And another touch to Dean's forehead killed the pain instantly.

But Gabriel was dead... wasn't he?

"C'mon," Gabriel said, tossing Dean his jacket. "Let's get outta here before someone decides to start singing 'Do Thyself a-No Harm.'"

The door to his cell swung open, and Dean, still convinced he was dreaming but not one to shy away from checking out crazy stuff, pulled on his jacket and followed Gabriel out, past the hordes of sleeping guards and down the street to his baby.

"Wait a sec," Dean finally said when they got there. "Why are you doin' this?"

Gabriel shrugged. "You let me out of the holy fire. Figured I still owed you one for that. Tell Sam I said hi."

And Dean was alone. And the Impala was real. He _hadn't_ been dreaming.

But if Gabriel was back, then... then...

... aw, hell, his brain wouldn't go any further than that. He just knew he had to get back to the motel twenty miles away and hope Sammy had fallen back there to figure out how best to attempt a jailbreak—because he would attempt one, now that he had his soul back. It was just a question of where he was holed up in the meantime.

"Freakin' angels," Dean murmured, but there was no heat behind it this time.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>AN: We laughed way too hard over Acts 12 at Bible study the night I wrote this for me not to do something with the punchline I heard Dean deliver in place of Peter's grand declaration to the empty street. :D And I know "Do Thyself a-No Harm" is about Paul and Silas and not Peter, but that seemed like a Gabriel-ish grouse.


	11. And Master of One

A/N: Another not-exactly-AU story, written for a prompt by jennytork.

* * *

><p>And Master of One<p>

It takes a lot of phone calls and arguments and assertions that he really does want to do this. It takes a lot of pleas of extenuating circumstances. It takes a lot of testing and emailing and scanning and drawing and photography. It takes a lot of late nights and early mornings and frequent backups on the external hard drive Sammy doesn't know he has so that he can pick just the right porn sites to freeze the laptop and cover his tracks.

And the second year, it takes a lot of hushed conversations with Ash that Sam assumes have more to do with girls and booze and maybe pot than with the subject they're really discussing. Ash is one of the few people in the world who tells Dean that no, he's not stupid, just undereducated, and he's one of the _rare_ few—apart from the prof who's working with Dean, Bobby when it's a topic he knows, and occasionally Sam when it occurs to him—to actually want to help remedy that.

After the deal, Dean thinks very seriously about giving up on it—not like it'll be much use to him downstairs, and he's just lost his dearest friend and tutor. But that lasts all of a day before he decides he's going to finish what he's started, let it be part of the legacy he leaves behind for Sam. After all, it was Sam's constant needling about his lack of education that started all of this. And when his dream-demon-self taunts him that he's never had anything that was all his own, he can honestly retort that he will have in just a few months' time—something not even Bela can steal from him.

Henricksen, by some minor miracle, never figures out it's really him. He'd probably have found them a lot faster otherwise.

There's a lot of stress and anxiety and depression and a lot of desperately wishing Ash were still around to help him through this, and not a little despair of making it to the finish line. But Dean manages to get all the ducks in a row a week before his deal is due and alerts both Sam and Bobby that a package will be coming to Bobby's house that summer. He insists that they open it when it arrives.

And when, against all odds, he finds himself back on Bobby's doorstep in September, the one thing that convinces Bobby it's really Dean is that he knows what was in that package.

Unfortunately, it arrived while Sam was off doing who-knows-what, and Bobby was the only one to have seen its contents. Fortunately, Bobby had managed to get them framed, and they're hanging in the study. "Damn proud of you, son," Bobby tells him with a squeeze to the back of the neck, and Dean very nearly cries for joy.

Sam finally thinks to ask about the package after they get the Witnesses dispatched. And Dean leads him into the study and says, "Read 'em and weep, little brother."

Two diplomas. Both from a good, though not Ivy League, university. Both bearing the name Dean Michael Winchester. One for a Bachelor of Science—summa cum laude. One for a Master of Science. Both in Electrical Engineering.

Sam huffs, nodding. "Good forgeries, dude."

Dean decks him on principle. "Just because you went to Stanford doesn't mean you're smarter than me," he growls.

And he vows to himself that as soon as they take care of this Apocalypse business, he's getting his PhD.

But he doesn't have many days of feeling like he still has to prove himself to Sam. Before they leave Bobby's again, another package comes, and Sam signs for it before bringing it in. "Dean? Did you order something from University Microfilms?"

"Few months ago, yeah." Dean smirks suddenly. "You open it."

Sam does—and freezes. It's a bound copy of Dean's thesis.

"Look it up online if you need to," Dean says. "But yeah. It's real."

Sam looks up at him. "You... _seriously?!_"

"Ash helped, but yeah. Think I might go for my PhD, too," he adds casually. "If we can keep Lilith from blowin' up the planet."

Sam's eyes look suspiciously bright. "And you never told me?"

"Didn't need your help. Didn't want you makin' fun of me. Hell, you just accused me of forging those diplomas a few days ago. You think I needed to hear that kind of thing when I was tryin' to get through a six-year program in three years—especially _these_ three years?"

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, a tear starting to trail down his cheek. "Dean, I am so sorry. I never should have doubted you. I never should have made you feel like you had to prove that you were smart." He swallows convulsively before adding, "You were probably the best teacher I ever had."

Dean looks at him a moment before sighing. "It wasn't just you, Sammy. It was Dad and Missouri and every teacher _I_ ever had. I just... I had to prove it to them, too. And to myself," he finishes quietly.

Sam looks back down at the thesis and runs a hand over the cover before sniffling and chuckling. "Well, then. Guess we'd better stop Lilith so I can start calling you Doctor."

A beat passes before Dean laughs, and Sam stomps across the room to pull him into a hug.


	12. Proslogion

A/N: And another Smart!Dean prompt—Stanford era, this time.

* * *

><p>Proslogion<p>

Tom's in Religious Studies, and he thinks he knows everything. In fact, he thinks he's smarter than the Church Fathers half the time. More than once Sam has had to bite his tongue to keep from informing Tom exactly how far off base he is about the state of the supernatural world.

But tonight, for some reason, Dean has turned up at the bar and accepted Sam's insistent invitation to sit with the gang. And Tom, jerk that he is, can't resist showing off his smarts in front of Sam's leather-clad high school dropout of a brother. No matter how many times Sam tries to change the subject to something non-academic, Tom keeps bringing the conversation back to his honors thesis, which is on Anselm of Canterbury and how, in Tom's opinion, the old saint couldn't argue his way out of a paper bag.

"Nice to meet you, Abelard," Dean mutters at one point, but Tom doesn't appear to notice because he's on a roll.

"I mean, look at the _Proslogion_," Tom continues. "God must exist because He's that than which nothing greater can be thought? Hell, I can conceive of flying pigs, but that doesn't mean they exist!"

"You're missing the point," Dean says firmly.

"Am I?"

"Yeah, you are. You can conceive of a flying pig. Great. Flying pigs don't exist."

"Right."

"A flying pig that did exist would be greater than the concept of a flying pig, though, right?"

Tom blinks. "I guess."

Dean leans forward. "So a flying pig is not that than which nothing greater can be thought."

Tom wavers. "I still don't think the argument works."

"You're still looking at it the wrong way. Think of the absolutely greatest thing you can possibly imagine."

Tom thinks for a moment. "Okay."

"And you can't think of anything at all that could conceivably be greater."

"No."

"For that to be that than which nothing greater can be thought, it has to exist, because actual existence is greater than potential existence."

Tom sits back. "A being that exists so truly that one can't conceive of it not existing?"

"Exactly."

"And _thou_ art this being, O Lord our God," Sam quotes in conclusion, but Dean doesn't react as if the statement means anything to him.

"Huh," says Tom, staring at Dean in shock. "I, um... I guess I need to go reread that one. Excuse me." And he beats a hasty retreat.

Dean catches Sam looking at him in astonishment. "What?"

"Nothing," Sam shrugs. "I just... didn't know you'd read Anselm."

"I haven't. That was just logic. He was looking at the statement from the wrong end. _And_," he adds, sensing Sam's next question, "I didn't say I _bought_ the argument. You know I've got plenty of reasons not to believe in God."

Sam huffs. "Yeah, so you've said." He ponders the situation for a moment. "Pure logic, huh?"

Dean frowns, clearly hurt. "Don't you think I can know logic?"

"I... I've just never seen you argue philosophy before, is all."

Dean looks even more hurt. "You mean you think I'm too stupid for philosophy."

"No, Dean, that's not..."

But Dean just gets up and storms out. Sam chases after him, trying to call him back, but Dean doesn't even look back. He climbs into the Impala and peels out, leaving Sam on the sidewalk outside the bar.

Sam waits an hour before he calls.

"What?" Dean snaps.

"That wasn't what I meant and you know it."

"You don't need a college education to be able to use logic, Sam. Hell, you've been arguin' rings around Dad since you were four."

"Dean..."

"And for the record, not that you asked, but yes, I _do_ know who Peter Abelard was."

Sam sighs. "Okay, I'll bite. How?"

"Louis L'Amour."

Sam blinks. "Seriously?"

"Man didn't only write Westerns, dude."

"Look, I'm sorry about Tom. If anyone at the table was being stupid, it was him. He shouldn't have talked down to you that way. And honestly? I hope you've ruined his thesis."

Dean chuckles a little, but he still sounds kind of hurt when he speaks again. "Take care of yourself, Sammy."

"You too, jerk."

Dean's usual retort stings more than it should as Sam hangs up.


	13. The Black and Blue Danube Waltz

A/N: Weechesters this time, for a prompt by honeylocusttree, in which I once again inflict Dean with my weird medical history... also, see if you can spot the quote from _Big Jake_.

* * *

><p>The Black and Blue Danube Waltz<p>

They were going to be in this town a while, John concluded. Several hunts had come up in the general area, and it didn't make sense to drag the boys all over creation if they _could_ have a home base for a time. So he found an apartment he could afford and got Dean enrolled in the first grade at the local elementary school and decided he'd tackle the first hunt that weekend, maybe see if he could get an income-producing job as a cover while he did research during the week.

Unfortunately, Dean's nightmares plus thin walls meant that their sourpuss neighbor was knocking on their door in the middle of the night and John had to explain while he and Sammy both tried to console Dean. Somehow he could tell she was looking for an excuse to call CPS, but she had nothing to go on other than Dean's screams, and so she grudgingly retreated.

"Be careful, Dean," he whispered when she was gone. "You know how easy you bruise. If you have to get hurt, be sure there are witnesses."

Dean nodded tearfully.

And he was careful. In fact, after a week, his teacher called John to find out why Dean was so paranoid about playing too roughly. But all John had to do was mention the neighbor's name for the teacher to understand completely and to promise her full support should Dean get injured on the playground.

But then Dean got sick. John caught it early, but it wasn't too bad for a few days—seemed like a mild case of the flu. He kept an eye on both boys, of course, and kept Dean hydrated and Tylenoled and out of school on the one day his fever topped 100, but he didn't think they needed a doctor...

... until Dean woke up one morning covered head to toe in angry-looking hives.

John called a doctor immediately and got Dean in that very morning. He didn't understand the full explanation, but he did understand that it was probably caused by a virus and that Dean needed to stay home until the welts went away. The doctor didn't think Sammy would be at risk, which was a relief. He also said that the only way to treat the disease was with rest, fluids, and pain and itch relievers. So John took a week off, called the school, stocked up on children's Tylenol and Benadryl and calamine lotion and oatmeal baths, and took the boys home and wished with all his might that Mary were there.

Dean was miserable. Any pressure at all on his skin hurt, and even his softest clothes were unbearable. He could hardly walk at first, too, so he spent the week on the couch watching TV and wearing nothing but his undies and a sheet. But Sammy did likewise out of sheer two-year-old solidarity, though he never got sick, and Dean was quietly grateful for the company. The itch relievers did help, though the effects never lasted long enough. And John even managed to remember how to make tomato rice soup, which earned him the most heartfelt but quiet "Thanks, Dad" he'd ever gotten from Dean.

Slowly, the pain and itching eased. Slowly, the swelling went down and Dean could hobble around in fuzzy slippers. Slowly, the redness faded.

Into bruises.

John's heart sank when he realized that his precious fair-skinned son looked like he'd been savagely beaten. Even his freckles looked painful. There'd been no screaming nightmares for a while, but with the neighbor evidently _looking_ for an excuse to call the cops on John, "your fault, my fault, nobody's fault"...

"Dean," he asked, "if we leave tonight, will you be okay in the car until we can get to Pastor Jim's?"

A fleeting look of agony crossed Dean's face before he nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll be fine."

"But Dean, you're all purple and owie!" Sammy objected.

"I'll be fine," Dean repeated stubbornly.

John wanted to hug the boy, but he knew any touch might hurt him. So instead he said as gently as he could, "That's my brave little soldier."

And he drove to Blue Earth as fast as he safely could so Dean wouldn't have to spend any more time in the nest of not-quite-soft-enough blankets on the back seat than he had to.


	14. Command Performance

A/N: More Weechesters!

* * *

><p>Command Performance<p>

For once—_for once_—they'd been in the same town long enough for Sammy to not only get a part in the school musical but also be able to make at least one performance. And the whole school district was going to be there; the high schoolers had voted for _Oliver!_, but the school was tiny and there weren't enough kids in the drama club to play all of Fagin's kids, so they'd opened it to the elementary and junior high as well. And Sammy? Sammy was playing The Artful Dodger, had solos and everything!

So _of course_ his proud big brother came down with a nasty virus and a 102° fever the afternoon before opening night. And _of course_ Dad was three states away.

"Dude," Dean croaked, "just get Alvin's dad to videotape it. I'll be fine for tonight. You go, have fun."

Sammy sighed. "Dean..."

"Hey. How 'bout practicing your solos for me? I'll try not to cough too much."

Sammy considered the idea... and realized there was one song that would be perfect for him to sing to his favorite big brother. He turned away for a moment to get in character, then turned back and looked Dean in the eye as he sang:

_I'd do anything  
><em>_For you, dear, anything,  
>For you mean everything to me.<em>

Dean grinned.

_I know that I'd go anywhere,  
>For your smile, anywhere,<br>For your smile everywhere I'd see._

"Would you climb a hill?" Dean chimed in on cue.

"Anything."

"Wear a daffodil?"

"Anything."

"Leave me all your will?"

"Anything!"

"Even fight my Bill?"

Sammy looked appropriately "shocked." "What, fisticuffs?!"

Dean laughed so hard he made himself cough.

_I'd risk everything  
><em>_For one kiss, everything—_

Dean pretended to gag.

"Yes, I'd do anything—"

"Anything?"

"Anything for you!"

Dean applauded and coughed again.

Sammy grinned, then sobered. "I would, though. You know that, right?"

Dean's smile softened. "Yeah. I do. I would for you, too."

Sammy ran to the bed and hugged him.

"Knock 'em dead, kiddo."

"I will, Dean. Promise."

He did. And by some miracle, Dad didn't get home until after Sam had gotten that videotape from Alvin's dad. He still had to miss the last three performances because of moving—again—but for several months afterward, every now and then, he could hear Dean humming "I'd Do Anything" under his breath, and it always made him smile.


	15. Tales from a Rained-Out Vacation

A/N: Just a couple of related bits of silliness, from a prompt by AuntMo for the spn_bigpretzel Endless Summer comment-fic meme on LJ: _A rare weekend away...and it rains the whole time. What to do, what to do?_

* * *

><p>With a Happy Refrain<p>

"Siiiingin' in the rain, just siiiiingin' in the rain..."

"Dean! Will you get in here?"

"Come on out, Sammy! The water's fine!"

"You're getting SOAKED!"

"And it feels AWESOME!"

"You're an idiot, you know that?"

"Do you _know_ how long it's been since we got any rain around here? Do you?"

"Dude—"

"Too. Damn. Long."

"That's no excuse."

"And it's been too damn hot. And I have been wondering if I would ever feel the rain on my face again."

"Yeah, and there's a cold front supposed to follow this storm."

"Oh, come _on_. You can't seriously be trying to give me the 'Come in out of the rain, you're gonna catch cold' spiel. That's not even true!"

"Okay, Gene Kelly, you win. Go ahead and make a fool of yourself. But do not blame me if that cold front is colder than you're expecting."

"Dude, just—aw, _dammit!_ It's stopping."

"…"

"Don't look at me in that tone of voice."

"…"

"Just—if you're not gonna come jump in puddles with me, then go inside and quit starin'."

"All right, fine."

"I'll WALK (_splash_) DOWN (_splash_) the LANE (_splashsplash_)..."

_Five, four, three, two, one..._

"$#)&*%$&^($%!"

"Tired of puddles already?"

"S-s-sh-shut up."

* * *

><p>(later, on the same rained-out trip...)<p>

* * *

><p>The Games People Play<p>

"Dude..."

"Dude!"

"Dude."

"Dude—"

"Dean..."

"HA!"

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"…"

"Sammy."

"Stop."

"What?"

"Just—"

"Just?"

"... Rain."

"So?"

"…"

"_Dude._"

"…"

"_Pie._"

"Go."

"What?"

"Go."

"Sam, c'mon."

"HA!"

"... What?"

"You said _three_ words. I win."

"Yeah? Well, I won first. You were the one who quit saying 'Dude.'"

"…"

"What?"

"Maybe we should see if the front desk has any _real_ games."

"Good idea. I'm gettin' a headache."


	16. The Road Less Traveled By

The Road Less Traveled By  
>By San Antonio Rose<p>

Henry Winchester is too young to be drafted by the time World War II ends, and by the time the Korean War starts, he's married. John comes along just before the draft deferment rules for married men change. As a result, he's free to stay in Normal with his family, working as a librarian at Illinois State during the day, and in his off hours serving the community as a member of the Knights of Columbus and engaging in spiritual warfare as a lay Dominican. Both are long-standing family traditions, the latter dating back at least as far as the English Reformation, when certain educated Winchesters had joined forces with the Dominicans to save as many books as possible from being destroyed during the Dissolution of the Monasteries. Henry's present concerns are far less pressing, of course, but he still takes a certain degree of pride in the legacy he upholds.

He's one of the first of the Knights in the Bloomington council to argue for integration. And when the council does so in 1958 and the KKK responds with violence, Henry gives his life to protect the new black Knights.

John grows up considering his dad a hero and hating God for not saving Henry's life.

* * *

><p>Samuel Campbell joins the CIA shortly after its founding in 1947. Civilian life is boring, but he doesn't want to go back to the Army, and he doesn't particularly want to follow in his father's footsteps by joining the FBI. Somehow he ends up working for Air America. He eventually marries and has a real pipperoo of a daughter, yet as much as he loves Deanna and Mary, he can't tell them what he really does. He shelters them as much as he can by keeping his home base in Lawrence, but no one knows that when he's called away to help with overseas operations, he's really building airstrips in Laos.<p>

He learns to operate the aircraft, too, and when things get dicey for American troops, he sometimes joins in helicopter sorties to pull them out of trouble. And that's how, in 1971, he ends up pulling a wounded John Winchester, Jim Murphy, Bill Deacon, and Mike Guenther out of the line of fire. He gets them back to Da Nang in one piece, but something prompts him to pause by Winchester's stretcher while they're waiting for the medics and pull out the charm bracelet Mary asked him to carry for good luck.

"Listen," he says, pressing the bracelet into Winchester's hand. "Look me up when you get back to the States. And if I haven't made it, take this back to my daughter and tell her I love her."

Winchester's in too much pain to do anything but nod, but nod he does. Then the medics carry him away, and Samuel gets back to the business of saving lives.

Winchester makes it home. Samuel doesn't.

* * *

><p>John and Mary don't like each other at first. He's a Marine; she's a hippy. He's an atheist; she's a Presbyterian. Their personalities clash. Sometimes they feel like they're not even speaking the same language. And under other circumstances, there's a better than even chance that he wouldn't even bother to keep in touch with the Campbells.<p>

But he feels an old-fashioned sense of obligation to support the family of the man who saved his life. So for the rest of his hitch, he divides his leave time between his family in Normal and the Campbells in Lawrence, and slowly an odd sort of friendship develops between him and Mary. By the time he's mustered out of the Marines, he's decided to see about attending KU on the GI Bill. Mary graduates from high school at about the same time, and they wind up having quite a few core courses together.

He proposes at Christmas. They get married in June.

That's not to say their marriage is perfect. They have their problems. More than once John moves out for anywhere from a few days to a few months, and more than once Jim, now a Lutheran minister, has to come down and counsel with them. But John gets his mechanical engineering degree, even though he has to take a job at a garage. Mary gets her degree in Western Civ and teaches for a few years until Dean comes along. By the time Sammy is born in 1983, they're a mostly happy, healthy family.

November 2, 1983, passes without incident.

Mary finds herself in need of parenting books, though, because her boys couldn't be more different. For all Dean's strength of will and flair for mischief, he's very much what Dr. Dobson calls a compliant child—eager to help, to please, to protect. Sammy, on the other hand, is decidedly a strong-willed child. He's sweet and loving, but he never meets a boundary he won't push or a rule he won't question. Mary has her hands full trying to keep up with both of them. Dean helps her as much as he can when John is gone, but even he has his limits.

John doesn't want her taking the boys to church, but he doesn't mind her reading the Bible with them or anything of the sort. The result is that Dean's very confused about God and Sammy has a budding faith that's at least half rebellion against John. Mary wishes fervently for some kind of breakthrough, because she suspects that church really would help all of them and might give her some support in corralling Sammy.

* * *

><p>When Sammy is four and Dean is eight, Dean is trying desperately to interest Sammy in his latest passion by playing <em>Star Trek<em> pretend, with the jungle gym as the _Enterprise_, Dean as Kirk, and Sammy as Spock. But all Sammy wants to do is run off into the woods around the park, and every time Dean chases him down and hauls him back to the safety of the jungle gym, Sammy runs off again. Mom's talking to another mom and not watching, and Sammy's taking full advantage of that fact.

Dean's worn out from running after Sammy, and he's just about to give up and go tell Mom when Sammy screams and comes running out of the woods with a cloud of yellowjackets after him.

Dean's been reading _Little House in the Big Woods _and remembers when this happened to Laura's naughty cousin Charley, but he doesn't remember what Pa and Uncle Henry did to get the wasps off. All he can think to do is yell for Mom and keep the other kids back.

There's a house right across the road from the park, and Mom herds Sammy over there and sprays him down with the hose to get the wasps off. The lady who lives in that house calls an ambulance just in case—and they need it, because Sammy's one big mess of wasp stings and is starting to have trouble breathing. Mom uses the lady's phone to call Dad, and then she and Dean jump in the car and follow the ambulance to the hospital. It's awful to have to wait while the doctors work on Sammy, but finally they let the family in to see him. And he looks terrible, all puffy and red and bumpy, with an IV in his hand and a tube down his throat to help him breathe. The doctor says they've knocked him out so he's not in so much pain and won't fight the ventilator, but everything he says after that is scary and Dean decides not to listen.

Instead he takes Sammy's hand and thinks, _God, please, if you're there, if you're listening, please help Sammy get better._

And he feels the swelling in Sammy's hand start to go down.

Mom gasps. Dad swears. The doctor starts checking all the machines to make sure it's not anyone's imagination. Then he calls another doctor to make sure he's reading everything right. But while the swelling doesn't go away completely, it goes down far enough that Sammy can breathe just fine on his own, and they take the tube out of his mouth. He'll have to stay the night because it'll hurt him too much to move him right now, but he's going to be okay.

"I'd say it's a miracle," says the second doctor.

_I asked God_, Dean thinks, feeling a little dizzy. _I asked God for help, and He gave me a miracle. For Sammy._

Dad's gone for coffee and Mom's in the bathroom when Sammy wakes up an hour later and asks in a scratchy voice what happened. Dean doesn't cry when he explains, but Sammy cries a little when he hears.

"Listen," Dean says after a minute. "Buddy invited me to VBS at the Methodist church next week. I think they've got a class for kids your age, too. Wanna go?"

"What'll Dad say?" Sammy whispers.

"Dude, it's VBS, not church. It's, like, day camp with Bible stories. How can Dad say no?"

Sammy smiles as much as he can. "Okay."

Mom's thrilled. Dad doesn't mind.

Dean gives his heart to Jesus on the last day and decides Dad doesn't have to know.

* * *

><p>After high school, Dean goes to the Naval Academy, spends eight years in the Marines, marries his childhood sweetheart, and moves back to Lawrence to become a police officer. He also becomes a deacon at the Methodist church, leads the prayer team and the men's Bible study, and frequently stays up late arguing theology on Internet forums.<p>

Sam, ever the rebel, goes to Stanford. He and his girlfriend Jess put the cart before the horse, in Dean's opinion, but they do get married, spend a year teaching English in Japan and two years in Ethiopia with the Peace Corps, and finish with two years of Bible school before going into long-term missions in India. Dad's befuddled, but Dean and Mary couldn't be prouder.

In their own ways, Sam and Dean both do battle with the forces of darkness, including literal demons and witches. Those things are very real. But there is no series of deals leading back to 1973, no supernatural conspiracy to launch the Apocalypse early, no attempt to force destiny on the Winchester family. Lucifer is not caged, but though he "roams about like a raging lion, seeking whom he may devour," he has no claim on Sam. Gabriel is not hiding out at a Midwestern college pretending to be Loki. Anna Milton's mother calls her "angel," but she's never been anything but human. And if Castiel exists, he has no need to rebel against an angelic hierarchy gone power-mad.

For God is in His heaven, and all is right with the world.


	17. Happy Little Accidents

A/N: Another from spn_bigpretzel, this one for the Outsider POV comment-fic meme, for zelda_addict's prompt: "In honor of the Fourth of July, that field Sam and Dean accidentally burned down with their fireworks had to belong to _somebody_, right?"

* * *

><p>Happy Little Accidents<p>

Ain't nobody gonna take Elroy McDonald's land.

Don't matter nohow that Elroy's dead—leastways, he thinks he remembers dyin' while he was out here a-workin', tryin' to get in the last o' the hay last summer (he thinks it was). Don't matter. This land's been in his family since the Late Unpleasantness, held onto by tooth and nail through droughts and panics and floods and depressions and wars and more other troubles than you can name. Elroy's the last of his kin, but that don't mean nothin'. Ain't _nobody_ gonna take his land, and ain't no way a little thing like bein' dead is gonna stop him from seein' to it that nobody tries to take it.

He feels badly 'bout the folk he done scared to death—but the land is _his_, dammitall. 'Tain't goin' to no city folk.

And the trespassers! Young'uns just traipsin' 'crosst his fields like there warn't no fence nor signs posted. Elroy don't mean nobody no harm, but he won't stand for trespassin'.

Like these two out here near the road tonight, pullin' a box out o' that big fancy car o' their'n. They're here to cause mischief, Elroy's just sure of it. And they're right at the edge of the hayfield, which Elroy never has finished harvestin', though not for lack o' tryin'.

Well, what in tarnation—FIREWORKS?! Them boys is settin' off FIREWORKS at the edge o' his hayfield?! They's purty enough, but Lawdamercy—now—now, boys—you be careful—_dadgummit_, there goes the hay! Elroy's gonna have to have him a talk with these young'uns—

—wait, what's that—

YEAAAAAAAAAAGH...

* * *

><p>"Huh," John says on the morning of July 6 as he reads the local newspaper.<p>

Dean and Sammy look at him with practiced innocence.

"Thought there was a case down here, but it looks like it solved itself."

The brothers blink at each other. "Sir?"

"Haunting on a farm about five miles from here. Last owner disappeared a year or so ago, but the body was never found—until night before last. Somebody was shooting off fireworks near the field where he died, and the grass caught fire. Once the fire was out, the firefighters found what was left of the body; looks like it burned with the grass." John takes a drink of coffee. "Should probably go check for EMF to make sure, but my guess is, those vandals saved us the trouble of having to find old Mr. McDonald ourselves."

"Could be," Dean replies carefully, sharing a look with Sammy that says neither one of them will ever let on that they're the ones who took care of the hunt without even knowing it was there.


	18. Do I Have To Do This All Over Again?

A/N: For a prompt by a_starfish on the bloodandpie Something Wicked comment-fic meme on LJ.

* * *

><p>Do I Have To Do This All Over Again?<p>

The first time it happened, Sam thought he'd had a horrible nightmare—until parts of it started coming true. He didn't tell Dean everything, but by Cold Oak, he was beginning to wonder whether he even had the power to change any of it. By Stull, he hadn't yet made up his mind to try. And he continued to hesitate all the way through.

The second time, he did try to make some changes on his own. He put salt down before he left to go to Jericho, only for Jess to inadvertently break the line at the door. He killed Jake and Ava right away, but Lily and Andy fled and were killed by Azazel's guards. Still, Sam coming out in one piece wasn't part of The Plan, so _something_ made sure he still died in Dean's arms, and when he continued to reject Ruby, she sliced a chunk out of his tattoo and hijacked him long enough to kill Lilith. Every time he turned around, something was thwarting him.

So the third time, he sat Dean and Jess down and told them both everything. Jess thought he was crazy and fled. Dean agreed to try to help Sam make a difference this time. But every time one thing changed, something else forced events back into line with The Plan.

The story was the same the fourth time. And the fifth. And the sixth. Every damn time he went to Hell and came back busted and went crazy and failed at life. Every damn time October 2015 rolled around, he and Dean were the only hunters available to take on a hunt—a legion of fallen angels, a legion of demons, a pack of werewolves, whatever—and every damn time, Sam came _thisclose_ to dying before...

... waking up when Dean broke into the kitchen...

just  
>like<br>Broward  
>County.<p>

Sam bolted out of the bedroom, tackled Dean, and started pounding the tar out of his face. Jess and Dean both screamed for him to stop, but Sam didn't let up.

"You swore," he growled, though it came out half a sob. "You _swore_ you wouldn't wear his face. _You promised me!_"

"You're right, Sam," Jess replied so coldly that it caught Sam's attention, and when he looked up, she was smirking in a way that made his skin crawl. "I did promise you that. _He_ didn't."

Sam swallowed hard and looked away from J—from _Lucifer_ and back down at _Michael_, who matched his brother smirk for smirk.

"Just a little object lesson," Michael said, "in the illusion of free will."

Then Sam was flying through what should have been the wall of the bedroom and slammed into the far wall of the Cage. Adam, forgotten in a corner, was a blubbering mess. But though both archangels returned to their true forms as Michael stood, Sam could have sworn they were still smirking.

"Well," said Lucifer. "What shall we do for our next century?"


	19. Father of the Year

A/N: **Major** spoilers for 9.07 "Bad Boys."

* * *

><p>Father of the Year<p>

A poker game. A damn _poker game_.

Okay, John thought he had left enough money for two weeks. Maybe he had and he's been gone for three weeks without realizing it. Maybe he hadn't paid enough attention to the prices of food lately. Or maybe Dean just really is that reckless. Whatever the reason, Dean not only lost what was left but got _caught_ trying to shoplift enough food to keep Sammy from starving until John got back.

And yes, fine, John should be the one taking responsibility for keeping food on the table, but this monster is damned elusive, and John's been having a hell of a time even figuring out what it _is_, never mind how to track it down and kill it before it snacks on anyone else. But he's close, and he can't back off now. People's _lives_ are at stake here, not just Sammy's food allowance.

John doesn't have time for this.

Bobby says he can come get Sammy, since he's two hours away already. Dean knows how to keep himself safe. And in jail, he'll get three squares a day, not have to worry about Sammy or about dodging the landlord when it comes time to pay rent if John still hasn't caught this damn monster, and _maybe_ learn a valuable lesson about how to keep himself out of trouble even if he does... end up having to scrounge again.

(John should have left more money. He just doesn't have it.)

He can't look Dean in the eye when he says it, but he tells the cop with the shiner to let Dean rot. It's only a thirty-day sentence. Dean can handle it. Besides, John can come back when he's done with the hunt and bail Dean out. It'll only take a week.

* * *

><p>Or two.<p>

* * *

><p>Or—<p>

* * *

><p>Okay, the punctured lung wasn't part of the plan.<p>

* * *

><p>Neither was the pneumonia.<p>

* * *

><p>John doesn't manage to do the math until he's leaving the hospital in Ann Arbor. Bobby's bringing Sammy to meet him at a restaurant, and Dean should be getting out—<p>

—wait, it's—

Dean's been out for a—

John runs back inside, calls the cops back in New York. Dean's at a stinkin' _boys home_, has been all this time, and John doesn't even know if the ex-con who runs the joint can be trusted. _Two damn months_. Anything could have happened to Dean in that time. How the hell did John let matters get so far out of hand?

And _then_, as he's waiting for Bobby and Sammy and trying not to show just how anxious he is to get back to the Catskills and get his baby boy back, he gets a page from Caleb about a werewolf in Johnstown, PA—and the full moon's just two days away.

John's not well enough to take this one alone, even if he wanted to. He needs Dean.

So they get lunch, he and Bobby and Sammy, and John speeds all the way back to New York and gets there just in time to find out that Dean's about to take his _girlfriend_ to a _dance_.

No. No. No.

John can't do this. He can't give Dean one more night here. Sonny seems like a decent guy, looks like he cares, but he has _no idea_ what's after John's boys. And the girl? Even if she checks out, they can't put her in danger. This is war; love's for civilians. Besides that, John _needs_ Dean; he can't stop that were without help, not with his lungs in the shape that they're in and a rib that still reminds him it's busted every time he coughs. He can't wait. He can't sleep on Sonny's couch and leave town in the morning. They've _got_ to go _now_.

Before someone else dies.

Before John can let his boy slip from his grasp.

Before the thing that killed Mary can find them again.

"Tell him I've got a job," John tells Sonny. "He'll know what it means." And when Sonny goes upstairs, John goes out to wait in the car. He can't let on that he's sick or that he's panicked. Dean won't be able to tell if he can't see John's face. And John knows his boy. He'll come when he's called.

And Dean comes.

But his steps are slow, and his eyes are bright with tears that won't fall, and his words are all for Sammy.

Tomorrow, John knows as he makes tracks for Johnstown, Dean will have his game face on, and they'll get this damn were. Maybe then John can bring Dean back to make up with his girl, if she's worth it. And if not... Dean's young. He'll move on. He'll have to keep moving until John ends this war.

It's not safe to stay put.

Love's for civilians.

Family has to come first.

John lost Pops. He lost Mary. He _will not_ lose Dean, too.

Tomorrow it will look like he made the right choice.

But tonight... oh, tonight. When Sammy's dozed off on Dean's shoulder, and Dean's not quite asleep with his cheek on the top of Sammy's head and he thinks John can't see, John glances back in the mirror as they pass under a streetlight and sees the tear slip down Dean's cheek. And he knows.

And it burns.

And he's the only one to blame.

It's too late to turn back. There's no fixing this one. He just has to hope Dean will heal, in time, like he always does.

But John knows.

_Oh, Mary_, he doesn't dare even breathe, _what the hell have I done?_


	20. Thirty Seconds

A/N: Spoilers through 8.23. **Warning for major character death.**

* * *

><p>Thirty Seconds<p>

Cas hesitated thirty seconds too long. A wheeze of "_Kah-nuh-am-dar_," and the universe was shaken.

Cas, Dean, and Naomi arrived at the church to find Crowley sobbing, "Moose! MOOSE! SAM!"

But Sam's lifeless form lay sprawled at the foot of the altar. Dean ran to the body, felt for a pulse, and let his heartbreak spill from his eyes.

"Dean, I—" Cas began brokenly.

"I tried to tell you," Naomi said softly. "I could—"

"No," Dean choked. "He's gone."

Cas and Naomi looked at each other, and then Naomi manifested her sword. "Dean, I could use your help against Metatron. You _and_ Sam."

Dean looked at Cas. "Give Charlie the bunker key and the car. Tell Kevin I'm sorry."

Cas nodded.

"Dean?" Crowley squeaked. "You're not—"

"Save it, Crowley," Dean interrupted, his words leaden.

Then he looked back at Naomi, and she sent him after his brother.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>AN: Jennytork and I were just talking about the mess of misunderstandings that characterize both canon and fandom as of the end of 9.13, and I noted that one point being missed by a lot of comments, including Sam's, is that Sam wasn't dead _yet_ and that therefore Dean was going to do everything within his power to do his "one job," even if—as turned out to be the case—it meant doing something Sam would never condone. That got me thinking about what would have happened if Sam _had_ been dead... and this drabble-and-a-half was the result. (Let's not refight the question of who's [more] right and who's [more] wrong in the reviews, 'k? Thanks.)

And this chapter marks the end of _Bits and Bobs: Volume 1_! I fully expect there to be a Volume 2, but I have absolutely no idea when it will be coming. Many thanks to those who've read and reviewed!


End file.
